


in the fractures, we meet

by caspasta



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Karen POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caspasta/pseuds/caspasta
Summary: Karen recognizes that holding onto a wanted man, even within the privacy of her mind and her heart, is dangerous and entirely foolish, but the memory of him is sometimes all she has.He continues to evade her, and the almost of it all, of them – it haunts her.





	in the fractures, we meet

**Author's Note:**

> wow, karen and frank are the real deal. their relationship is so fragile and beautiful and tragic, they deserve their after. together.
> 
> but, this is not what that is. sort of a meditation and character study from karen’s perspective, with talk of cars, 70’s tunes, roses, elevators, and tears.
> 
> disclaimer: I do not own anything from Daredevil or The Punisher, the dialogue is not mine.

That night, she’s glad her car is ruined. It had nothing but bad memories attached to it. 

Late night meetings with Ben as they chased a story to the very thing that ended in blood. 

Wesley slumped in his designer suit.

Ben buried next to his parents.

The adrenaline of running from the Punisher in broken flats, Grotto in his hospital gown bent in the passenger seat as shots shattered the glass.

The cold sweat she refused to show to Frank after lying to the police about her attack. (The one he saved her from).

Ordering black coffee, letting hers cool while he drank his like water, cup after bitter cup.

Remembering the smile in the hospital, watching as his mouth curved and smoothed his harsh lines across the booth.

Felt like she was on display, under the eyes of Frank Castle.

_ People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it_.

The betrayal and chaos in the air, crouching under the steel counter as gunshots and shouts pounded in her ears, a cry pushing past the hand thrown across her mouth.

_ Stay away from me._

Parking outside the house of the man who testified for Frank, who spoke of friendship in wartime, of infectious kid songs, and the knack for impressions.

Slightly crooked photographs of Frank smiling, before he lost everything, before the Punisher, before she ever knew him.

_ It was spot on, really unnerving the way he could look into a person’s soul._

_ I think I know what you mean_.

The feel of a gun pressed to her side held tight by a man with a snarl and lies in his teeth. 

The jolt of the crash, the familiar smell of blood staining the upholstery. Her chest hurt more from the memory of Kevin than it did from the seatbelt.

The colonel smeared with red, talking about Kandahar like it’s the real source of everything. 

Her pleading with Frank, trying to anchor him with names and a fight for the truth.

_ Tell me for Maria, tell me for Lisa, tell me for Frank Jr._

A man with nothing left, a gravel in his voice as he shut the cabin door. Her falling into the headlights’ glare, cold to the bone with grief.

_ I’m already dead._

_**i**._

She steals the Earth, Wind & Fire cassette from the tape player before the tow truck takes her car.

Buys a new one. Different model, just as old.

She tosses the tape into the glovebox, next to her extra rounds and the owner’s manual. 

Listens to NPR and occasionally flips to a station that plays old classics. 

Thinks of Ben and his tape, and how she’s inherited everything of his – his car, his job, his music, his endless amount of determination to seek the truth (though, she’s sure she’s had that long before meeting him).

Thinks of Frank, teasing her about singing along to disco. His hat lowered to shield his face, the telltale bruising beneath his eyes, along his cheeks, peppered around his mouth.

In this new car, she still remembers the smell of sweat and copper, the sharp stench of gunfire that followed him everywhere. 

Even back in the hospital with its disinfectant and sterile instruments, they couldn’t clean the Punisher off Frank Castle.

_**ii**_.

Later, when he’s returned and looks like a moving shadow in the low light of her apartment, he’s the same. The familiarity of it has her hands trembling around the neck of her beer.

He smells of New York at night and the freshness of the roses that sit between them when she falls into him, grabbing with both hands.

“It’s really good to see you,” she lets herself this small confession, knows it to be true.

“It’s good to see you.” He looks shy, and it’s endearing and almost too overwhelming how much he means to her.

Her voice breaks next to the river, trying to pull him from his endless war. 

She wants to find the truth, almost as much as he does, but when will the truth be enough?

He denies it, the loneliness. And she calls him on it.

”_Bullshit_, we are all lonely. I sometimes think that that is all life is – we’re just...we’re just fighting not be alone.”

(She includes herself, and her heart breaks further, both relieved and tired.)

The breath leaves her lungs as he pleads, leans in, the moment all too intimate.

His lips on her cheek, warmer than she expects. It’s as light as the wind.

He sweeps by her. 

(Each time, she fears – dear god, she’s so fucking _ tired _ of being afraid – that it will be the last time she sees him. She wonders if him being out there, her not knowing where he is, is any better than him being dead. 

She hates herself.)

_**iii**_.

The hotel promises adrenaline, drywall, blood, smoke, and a terrified boy who wears a bomb like a shield. 

It’s all bargaining and retreating into the grip of Lewis Wilson, trying to wave away the police, Anvil’s gunmen, Frank. 

She’s never seen him look that raw, so open. Even with his bulletproof vest, quick movements, and a gun in his hand –

– he looks terrified.

She feels her heart drop.

Still, there’s steel in his voice and his eyes are black as she and Wilson fall into the elevator.

“I will come for you,” he says, and she wants to kick at the door that slides shut, cutting her from him.

It’s ironic that all hell breaks loose in the kitchen. (As if a bomb and gunfire didn’t leave bodies in the hotel room, the corridor, the stairwell, like the crowded paintings of the Renaissance.)

She tries to get to Lewis, tries to find a part of him that she can reach, and although he is _ nothing _ like Frank, the sting of uselessness feels too familiar, and her mind returns to the woods and the cabin and the sharp twigs digging into her knees.

Lewis doesn’t listen. Grabs her again, and Frank appears, bloodier and more broken than before.

The Punisher tries what she failed to do, tries to reason with the trigger finger behind her.

She holds onto Frank’s words, his movements, the slow pace and his rising voice. 

If this is it, she wants him to be the last thing she sees and hears and remembers.

He barks words, and she catches his meaning quickly. Words meant for her. They’ve always been good at understanding the other. Almost too good.

Pull the white wire. The gunshot stalls the moment and she barrels into Frank.

He hovers before the shaking boy in the freezer, who shivers with fear rather than the cold. Screams at her to run.

He’s an idiot for thinking she’d leave.

After everything.

The blast is worse than the first, louder and stronger and the tiled floor is unsurprisingly more unforgivable than the carpet of the hotel suite.

Coming to feels a little like waking up with the worst hangover, but as her hearing returns, it’s to a rain of debris and the slow breath of Frank. 

They reach out, hands trying to anchor the moment with the touch of the other. His hand on her head is warm and perfect and she wants to fall asleep under the gaze of him.

She climbs to her feet, steadies herself against him.

Gives him the gun with a quiet utterance.

“Hey.”

They stumble into the hallway, face Brett and his men. Slip into the freight elevator. Slip from each other.

Exhaustion from fighting, from the blasts, from the fear, from everything catches up to them. She slumps against the wall, a mirror of the man beside her.

It’s another goodbye that draws them back in, both of them leaning against the other, too terrified of the distance leaving will bring.

Keeping a hand on his shoulder, inches from the metal embedded in his arm, she rests her forehead against his and breathes.

Just breathes.

She wants to heal him, to hold him. She wants him to stay.

Instead, she releases him, tells him to go. (If there is one thing she can do for him, it is to help him, however she can. If pushing him away – _ urging _ him to leave – is all she can do, she’ll do it.)

She tries her best to convey some amount of strength, tries to let him know that it’ll be okay, tries to smile.

He stumbles backwards, out of the elevator shaft, escapes. 

She feels her eyes burn as he disappears, the sight too familiar.

_ Take care_.

_**iv**_.

She keeps the roses until they wilt, presses them into a copy of her favorite Vonnegut novel.

Opens the glovebox and keeps the tape in the player for her bad days.

She rarely drives anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> what’d ya think? I really enjoyed writing this, especially as my first story in these fandoms.
> 
> please let me know your thoughts, and thank you for reading!


End file.
